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Thursday, August 21, 2014

I am in a mood, said the bandit to the cavalier. The moon is a pool of liquid peach, responded he. Car bodies circle me like penitent testaments, said the bandit. You are a bloat of IF, sez the cavalier.

A man who is tired should not work
A man who is tired should not write
A man who is tired should not sleep
He should rest from care.

What is care? It is being awake with no answers, no cure.

It is interesting to write when you are tired. It is selfish. A disservice to the reader. And that is a disservice to oneself. But we explore this violation in a spirit of desultory voyaging. Kind of like if Erik the Red had had GPS.

What is time? It is a red flower, not a rose. A dahlia. The kind of thing you wouldn't be caught dead with. With which you would not care to be caught while, or in the state known as, dead.

What is death. It is a red red rose that traffics not in other red things, flowers in particular, with its upturned nose and creepily clustered eyelashes.

What is a burrito? It is perhaps the most functional form of food ever conceived. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. They are always interesting and affordable and can be made quite different from each other.

Would it help if I died my hair pink?

Of course it would help. Look at the people with pink hair. Look at their faces. They don't need you and they don't need me.

I will close with a parable.

A man with two donkeys built a trap using a mathematical formula he had discovered in papers buried under a pile of books in his father's study. As night falls, the man withdraws to the hut he shares with his two donkeys, Esther and Chloe. Every night he has the same dream. Every morning he has forgotten the dream he had.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

I seem to be seeing more (or less) form more (and sometimes fewer) people I know, on terms of production of art, and children, or lifetime contracts - or job commitments, etc. lately. This includes children and the elderly, democrats, republicans, and everyone beyond.

I am quite sure that there was a lot of talk not too long ago about the universality of knowledge and art, being expression and the expressed, of the here of now, especially of the under-represented, and the role of the over-represented to shut the fuck up. Well, I like all that. And I think we are in a form of Golden Age of such. I really do. I feel bashful to be happy in art, but what you all are doing is just so interesting and fine. You can;t swing a dead cat in the digital world without striking the clean, observant, daring, apt. I really never thought I would see this - or, perhaps it is better to say that I am grateful that I have the wherewithal to perceive it in the first place.

Is art always great? I really don't think so. But maybe I have somehow placed myself to be among people who do great things. How. Well, it's you, not me.

This is what we have in the present age, due largely to the social network, is how persons quite well-known and remarkable in themselves present their work virtually universally, and the work of others, so that good things are present immediately either as primary or secondary texts. The pond freshens and refreshes, constantly, from established or new sources.

Or I may know nothing and simply being feeling something. I am fortunate to have my work that runs in and out of my life. I have lost the flavor or knack of judgement. We run hard, you and I, and if we love each other well we will not be counted a loss. Not now, not ever. Never.